


Dewdrops On His Eyelashes

by mossnrocks



Series: Excerpts from Acaev [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, This is technically a drabble?, Vomiting, forgetting one's true identity, linear-ish, part of my character's backstory, surrealish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossnrocks/pseuds/mossnrocks
Summary: Over quarantine, I wrote a book called Tales from Conant. Its first draft is finished but isn't available to read anywhere. Hopefully will be getting it published someday. This short features part of one of the main characters' backstory.Please enjoy this trying to be cool piece.
Series: Excerpts from Acaev [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027123
Kudos: 1





	Dewdrops On His Eyelashes

Magnus, MacOtter, MacLucas… these names were everything and yet nothing, a potion that comprised him but when you checked the cup it was empty. Otter is one too, but it slips from his tongue and slides from his ears, and he no longer recognizes it as one of his own. 

Dewdrops have gathered on his eyelashes and when he opens his eyes they fall from them as though he has been crying. Has he? The days are grey and yet colorless, slipping through his fingers like the names do, unable to hold them close and dear any longer. He stands, and the world spins like a dancer bowing to him in line before twirling away. 

He’s not sure if he’s stumbled or just sat down, but he’s somewhere else now, no longer in the field that he had no business being in. There is the sound of people speaking, yelling, crying, living their lives around him. Was he once one of them? 

No, no, he knows he never was, for even before this drifting endless day he was beholden to whims not his own. His elbow brushes someone else’s sleeve and he’s reminded of time spent in stifling clothes that choked him and stopped him from speaking with her. 

She’s everywhere he looks, sometimes. His mother, her even and pale face staring out from pamphlets from her followers, surrounded by those white slips of masks they wear, sometimes only her pale blue eyes peering out from behind the smile she’d never spared for anyone. 

He finds a barrel in an alley, cracked open like an egg, inside there is pickled fish and while once he would turn his nose up at such things now he only shovels as much into his mouth as he can before someone stops him.

A few blocks later, he throws nearly all of it up in another alley, the acidic mush dribbling out from behind his hands that try to press it back in. He gags when it does come back down, and the cycle continues of him, a nameless boy that no longer matters, retching behind a tavern of ill repute. 

The days when he lived above all this seem so far away, and he has no way to know for sure how long it’s been. It’s been more than a day, but anything more than that makes his head spin and his mouth go dry again, and he gags. 

He’s not gagging now, he’s in front of somebody, and they’re telling him something. The sound doesn’t penetrate the wobbling shiels around him, they seem underwater, and oh, now he’s falling. 

When he wakes in the dark that smells like saltwater, he’s not sure what’s happened and even if it’s real. Someone’s left a hat nearby, and it’s clean enough, so he jams it on his head and curls up again. 

Someone speaks to him, asks for a name, and he has to answer, so he scrambles for an answer. 

“My name is MacLucas,” he says. They say something else. “Yes, I can sail.” 


End file.
